


Can't Stop, Won't Stop (Maybe I don't want to)

by barcabrony (freolia)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Euro 2008, FIFA World Cup 2010, Happy(ish) ending, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Real Madrid CF, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6453409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freolia/pseuds/barcabrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergio's been lost for too long now, and there's no way he can stop now. So he just keeps going, chugging on and hurting too many people in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stop, Won't Stop (Maybe I don't want to)

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to 'Secret Love Song' by Little Mix, and suddenly this was born. Hopefully it's not too obvious that I'm still pissed off with Sergio.

It starts back in 2007. It’s the end of the season, and Real Madrid has just won La Liga. If Sergio focuses, he remembers a party; not where it was, or exactly when, or how he got there, only that he arrives alone and he’s only 21. Everyone has been telling him how grown up he is now, how mature. 

But looking at the players who surround him and bump into him to the rhythm of some crappy pop, at Iker who’s only four years older but has everything together, at David, who’s the dying remnants of an era of supposed greatness and won’t be in the country in a week and his captain, Raúl, who has ruled the club for years now, he feels pathetically small. 

He stands at the edge of a room and silently watches his teammates drink and dance, celebrate and already begin to forget, and he wonders how they can make it look so easy. Because maybe they won the league, but Los Galacticos are finished, and all he can think of is David who’s leaving for the USA, and Fernando who’s leaving for England. Who’s leaving him behind. Nobody watches him back, and he’s grateful for that.

His phone is in his right hand, and tears are burning the back of his eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge either of them and burns the back of his throat with the vaguely alcoholic drink in his left hand instead. Compromise. 

‘Everything’s about compromise.’ That’s what Fer had said. Different country, but more phone calls. Further apart, but more money to bring them together. Different lifestyle, but more interesting stories to tell. Sergio had asked about less kisses. He’d just smiled and kissed his cheek, said something about trying harder so he wouldn’t forget. He’d stopped listening after Fernando started pulling at the buttons on his shirt. 

It hurts all the more because he loves Fer so much; it’s intense, and it burns at his insides, and some days it hurts that he cares so much but it pushes him onwards; he channels it to his football when Fer isn’t there, and lets it ignite his bones when he is. Every kiss sears across his retinas, every touch scorches his skin, and some days he likes to imagine that he’s ruined for anyone else after Fer; that the golden striker has numbed him to anyone else. Some days he doesn’t care. 

But his vaguely muddled thoughts are interrupted when Iker stumbles across to him, the first person to see him clearly all evening (although whether Iker is seeing anything clearly is debatable, as he immediately grabs Sergio’s shirt for balance).

“Sergio! What are you doing!” He frowns childishly for a moment. “You don’t look drunk. Come and get drunk.”

Sergio chuckles sadly. Maybe he should. Drunk is losing himself (when he’s desperate to be found). Drunk is not remembering (when he can’t afford to forget). But Iker’s still staring at him with pleading eyes, and he thinks Iker is amazing. He’d never say no to his hero. 

Iker pulls him to the kitchen, Sergio keeps him on his feet, and the two of them get so drunk that they can’t tell Raúl and Guti apart – although they’re locked so tightly together they’re basically the same person anyway. They get so drunk that everyone becomes hilarious and wavy, and they can’t stop laughing at David’s high-pitched, badly-accented Spanish. Sergio’s so far gone that he doesn’t notice the call screen flash up on his phone or hear the tinny Real Madrid anthem blare out from his pocket. 

And if their eyes lock a few too many times in the following hours, if Iker’s hand lingers a second too long on Sergio’s back or wrist or if Sergio traces a finger around Iker’s jawline, then they’re both too drunk to remember. 

And they are both certainly too drunk to mention the soft way their lips meet when the rest of their team has passed out in the early hours of the morning. 

Sergio walks home (sort of), and tells himself that it didn’t matter, that he’s drunk, sad and lonely, and Iker is way too important for anything to happen anyway.

He tells himself these things, but when he masturbates in the shower before sleeping off a hangover, his mind supplies dark brown hair, not dyed blond. 

It doesn’t cross his mind that Iker might have been trying to forget someone else who was leaving as well. 

* * *

When they meet up for international break over the summer, Sergio is ready to pretend that nothing happened. 

Fernando is exactly the same as he remembers, long legs, tanned skin and golden hair. He still dazzles him, still shines brighter than the sun in Sergio’s eyes, and he’s the same in the dark as well, he still feels heavy and perfect lying on top of Sergio on a lumpy single bed in the room they’ve shared since Sergio was eighteen and knew this was something he wanted. Fernando still knows all the ways to reduce him to begging and moans, all the places to touch to drive him crazy, and Sergio keeps giving everything back that he can and more. 

And for a week, Sergio can pretend that nothing _has_ happened, that the two of them can be perfect together like before, that no one can even come close to comparing to Fernando and the intense heat and desire that Sergio holds for him.

He ignores the half-second glances that he catches from Iker that aren’t longing or _anything_ really, and the little accompanying pang in his stomach every time their eyes meet. 

He just tries to ignore the fact that anything’s changed, and keeps moving forwards.

* * *

He realises how hard a long-distance relationship is just a few weeks into the next season when he’s trying to Skype with Fernando. 

Sergio is determined that this is going to work, that him and Fernando will be the perfect secret couple that everyone knows about anyway, that they’ll know each other inside out, know the thoughts on the other’s mind by the smallest twitch of a muscle or tell their mood from their eyebrows or some other sappy shit. 

But for some reason, he still finds himself stumbling over his keyboard, still doesn’t know the perfect words to remind Fernando that he’s in love and taken, still can’t quite find the keys to the other man. 

(Years later, Fernando would tell him that he already had them with affection pooling in his eyes.)

And when he’s taken more than five minutes to try and write out his message, when Fernando tells him (kindly? Impatiently? Like he’s hiding something – or someone? Sergio can’t tell over a screen which is too bright for his eyes) that he’s going out on a pub crawl with Steven Gerrard and Xabi, all Sergio can manage is a quick ‘ _have fun xx_ ’ before turning off his computer and covering his eyes with his fingers. 

Sometimes, life just doesn’t feel fair, because even though Sergio is playing for the best team in the world, he’s getting so lonely. Fernando is off having an adventure with new teammates and a new dream, and Sergio hasn’t even let himself touch another human being for two weeks for fear of fucking this up.

When Iker comes knocking on his door with the promise of beer and clubs, Sergio doesn’t even bother arguing. He deserves to have fun, and doesn’t want to feel like Fernando has him locked in a cage, because his partner is meant to set him free, to burn away his limitations, and Fer would probably feel terrible if he knew that Sergio was miserable.

Raúl and Guti are already waiting outside and Sergio wonders yet again how they haven’t been found out, because they are so goddamn obvious and oblivious to the rest of the world. For a moment he wonders just how much easier everything would be if he could talk about everything with someone else instead of hiding everything in dark hotel rooms and shady corners of training pitches on international breaks. 

Instead, he gets drunk enough to dance with Iker in a very public place. Their faces come so close to each other without touching, bodies moving in an invisible rhythm to each other. He’s aware enough not to do anything in the club.

But if Iker’s fingers graze his on the way out of the club, then he’s drunk and lonely enough to let it happen. And if he happens to hold the door open for Iker when they get back to his front door, and Iker’s happy to walk through it, well, maybe he’s drunk enough to pretend that what happens next doesn’t happen. 

(Except it does.)

* * *

International break comes in October, and with it, Fernando. And it’s almost a relief to ignore Iker for a week (but damn, it’s getting harder).

On their first night, Sergio pushes Fernando up against the door to their room, still a couple of inches shorter.

There’s a delicious smirk on Fer’s face. “This is new.” He purrs.

“I missed you.” Sergio replies, before attacking his mouth, one hand in his golden hair, dragging his nails down Fer’s back with the other, making the other man moan in delight. They have sex, Sergio on top for a change, and it’s hot and desperate and possessive, meant to leave a mark (he’s still not sure which one of them needs the reminder). 

He spends the week attached to Fer, always a hand on his back or making eye contact; he is _not_ going to let himself forget again. Or let anyone else forget; Fernando is with _him_ (and he's with Fer). 

He doesn’t let himself look at Iker as anything other than a teammate (he’s worried what everyone might see if he does). But he still doesn’t like the way Cesc is beginning to gravitate towards the goalkeeper. Sergio lets himself believe it’s because the younger player has always pledged himself to Barcelona, that it’s the hate towards his best friend, Piqué, spilling over. Sergio is getting very good at letting himself believe things that he knows aren’t true. 

* * *

November brings El Clasicó, and victory away from home. It’s sweet and beautiful, and he wants to call Fernando to celebrate. Almost nothing gets his blood racing quite like this match, and he wants to see the one person that does.

But Fer doesn’t pick up the phone; Sergio listens to his voice mail over and over again even though he doesn’t understand the recorded English message because it’s the closest he can get to his lover at this point. The dial tone dings so many times, and each time, Sergio tries to think of something to leave on the voice mail, something that can communicate how his heart is still smashing about in his chest but not from the match, how his senses are only just beginning to come alive, how he wants, needs, to see him, how the other man sets his heart on fire.

In the end, he says nothing and hopes Fer sees the twenty missed calls (Christ, he’s pathetic), and celebrates with the team at Iker’s house. There’s alcohol – _lots_ of alcohol, and he drinks a lot of it himself. Iker finds him draining another glass with a passion he usually reserves only for football and Fernando and takes him upstairs, away from the beer (if it can even be called beer).

They don’t have sex; Sergio’s too drunk, and Iker isn’t drunk enough. Instead, Iker pats his back as he throws up in the toilet, whispers soothing words and holds him close as he falls asleep on his bed, watching his bloodshot eyes flutter shut with a sad smile.

He knows he isn’t being fair to Iker – or Fer – but he can’t seem to slow down. Sergio’s going off the rails, so far past acting ok that he’s practically doing it backwards, heading for a KO, but he can’t bring himself to stop; it’s going for a tackle to take the ball out, but realising too late that it’s mistimed and that he’ll take out someone’s legs instead. 

(But this isn’t just a game, this isn’t just knocking someone down, and there’ll be three people hurt by the end. Sergio keeps going anyway; he’s so sick of being lonely.)

* * *

They win the league – again – and it’s amazing, even though they lost 4-1 just a couple of weeks ago to Barf-elona (it’s a bit American for his taste, but he loves the pun anyway and repeats it to anyone who’ll listen, and everyone who won’t).

Trophies are a special kind of victory because they show hard work and sacrifice, and true quality, not the sort that only shows over 90 minutes but the kind that’s tested over 268 days and 38 matches of sweat and training. They’re also a massive middle finger to rivals – in other words, fuck you, Barcelona. 

Raúl and Guti hold the party; they’re essentially incapable of doing anything apart, and Sergio takes every opportunity to point it out. Guti splutters and denies it, while Raúl just smiles knowingly and looks at Iker. (Sergio ignores the implications.)

Sergio sends Fer a text before he leaves; he assumes that Fer won’t pick up if he calls (there’s always a reason; time difference, or extra training, or out with Steven. Sergio never questions it, but can’t help getting paranoid and immediately feels terrible when he does. So they keep on going, barely communicating during the season and trying to make up for it in international breaks – neither is going to admit that it’s not the same) but lets him know that he’s thinking about him with a quick and meaningless text. Isn’t it the meaningless things which mean the most?

He immediately forgets as he’s welcomed into Raúl’s house with a warm hug and a shouted greeting and a cheer. A beer is thrust into his hand and he takes it with a smile; with each season, he’s growing into these parties and he’s the first to start the dancing this time around. 

His body moves to the rhythm and there’s a cheer as he moves his hips – he doesn’t know who and he doesn't bother to look, already lost in the music. His vision blurs pleasantly around the edges as he drains another cup of cheap, nasty beer, and he bumps into someone just behind him.

He spins, brown eyes meet brown, and now he’s not just moving on his own, he’s moving against Iker, the two of them perfectly in rhythm, friction between their skin and their eyes locked, Sergio not even seeing the excited grin on Iker’s face and the flush in his cheeks.

They spin and weave together and one of them laughs, wild and happy; Sergio wouldn’t be able to say which of them it was. The song finishes and suddenly they’re kissing, Iker’s hands pulling at his hair, one of his hands on the back of Iker’s neck with the other on his back, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. There’s cheering and whistling from their teammates, and it’s been far too long since Sergio has been this happy-

He’s not drunk enough to be doing this. Because Fernando is still in the back of his mind, and he stares at Iker with a horrified expression, who looks back so confused (and hurt, a voice whispers to him, and that’s your fault).

He stumbles out a quick “I’m so sorry,” before stumbling out of the house. He’s stumbling over everything at the moment, and it’s only a matter of time before he falls; it scares him a little that he doesn’t think he’d bother pulling himself up again.

Sergio locks himself in his house and hides under his duvet, thinking about what a horrible person he is. 

He still doesn’t call Fernando.

* * *

The season ends, and the European Championships begin. He shares a room with Fernando as always, and he’s determined to do better this time. He’s determined not to let this slip, because he loves Fernando, loves him with such a passion that he feels he could burn and disintegrate in it sometimes (and isn’t he just repeating the same things now?).

Every morning, he wakes up and repeats that Fernando is the best thing that has ever happened to him while the other man is still asleep next to him, the sheets only half covering the two of them, the bed not really big enough.

Every morning, he repeats that Iker is nothing but a friend, a fantastic friend who is destined to rule the world. A wonderful person who deserves so much better than anything Sergio can give him. 

Every morning, he lies to himself a little bit more, and still says nothing that means anything to either of them. He’s 22, yet he still feels like a child with no clue what to do, and wishes again that someone would sort things out for him. Because he’s scared and alone, and knows that he shouldn’t be doing this but doesn’t know how to stop. 

So he turns up the intensity of everything he does to 110%. Fernando doesn’t understand (because Sergio loves him, but he can be so fucking blind and he wants him to see so badly so he can stop feeling so guilty all the time) but he enjoys it; every goal he scores and Sergio jumps off the bench. Hugs and kisses on the cheek on the pitches they play on, and surely, _surely_ , someone must get what’s happening so he can stop. They’re so obvious if anyone cared to look, but only Iker _sees_ , and only Iker gets hurt, because Sergio sees the way his heart cracks a little every time he touches Fernando.

Fernando left and ruined Sergio in the past, so he’s hurting Iker now and he’ll end up destroying Fernando in the future. It’s a fucking circle, and Sergio hates that he’s the catalyst, but _he can’t stop_. He knows he’s running this stupid little affair (because that’s what it is when he stops to think about it late at night when Fernando’s fallen asleep on top of him, or when he meets Iker’s eyes after a goal and the crowd goes silent around them) on borrowed time, and it’s only a matter of when Fernando finds out, or Iker breaks (Sergio knows that he’d run this into eternity if he could, but every tank runs out of gas sooner or later).

The tournament ends; Fernando has a great tournament. Iker has an amazing tournament. Everyone on the team has a bloody brilliant tournament, and when Sergio looks at his national team, he feels overwhelmingly proud; this is a team which can rule the world. He just wishes he deserved a place on it. 

He just wishes he could he kiss Fernando properly in front of the world, shout everything out and make the fans accept it. He just wishes he could look at Iker without feeling a shift in his heart and the pang of guilt that inevitably follows. He just wishes he could stop hiding and be secure in himself again.

He just wishes he was a better person and could let them both go. 

(But he’s not. And he can’t.)

* * *

The new season starts without incident. He tries to hold Iker at arm’s length, to try and let him become so brilliant without any… distractions. Because that’s what he is now. And he tries to focus on Fernando. 

Sergio sends him a message every day; sometimes he gets a reply. Most of the time he doesn’t. And it’s because he feels loneliness creeping up on him again and he gets scared of what he might do, that he flies to Liverpool on a manic spur in the middle of the week. 

He finds out from Xabi where Fer lives, and surprises him in the middle of the night, hair soaked from the English rain like a romantic cliché before letting Fernando do whatever he wants to him, hands and kisses everywhere, surrendering himself completely.

And for two days, he lets himself think that this is perfect. Randomly surprising each other with great sex, and cooking the partner breakfast because he woke up early (read: couldn’t sleep from guilt). 

But then he remembers that Fer hasn’t showed up in Madrid once to cheer him up, despite the promises he made before he left in the first place. He remembers that Fer likes to sleep in and wouldn’t be able to cook him breakfast anyway (seriously, he tried a paella once. Sergio had almost gone vegetarian afterwards). And he gets a text from Iker asking where he is and everything begins to fall apart again.

Maybe he’s just tired of trying to pull the pieces together of this tired love story, but he can’t stop now, can he?

He flies back to Madrid with a love bite just under his jaw, nail marks down his back and a slight limp, and nobody questions what he’s been doing. Iker just stares at him with a painful, sad longing, and Sergio hates himself and the rest of the world for treating Iker like this. For treating Fernando like this. They both deserve so much better.

He doesn’t stop though, and stills pulls Iker’s lips to his in the dark, still lays his hands all over Fernando at the smallest opportunity.

Another season passes, and nothing changes. He breaks Iker’s heart and glues it back together and tells him what he thinks he wants to hear, he doesn’t tell Fer anything, and he tears himself apart over and over again.

Sometimes he wonders when dark brown replaced fake blond, and if he’s feeling especially bitter he picks out faults in both of them. Fernando: pro, he’s fucking gorgeous. Con, he only ever wants sex and sometimes Sergio thinks that there was nothing more to them (he’s knows he’s wrong, that he’s using it as an excuse). Iker: pro, he’s always there. For anything. Con, Sergio feels fucking horrible that he’s always there. For anything. Because when he thinks clearly, he knows that the only problems with both of them are ones he’s imagined and created.

Barcelona wins everything, Real Madrid wins nothing, Fernando's still oblivious, the light continues to dim in Iker's eyes, Sergio feels like he loses another bit of his soul, and the world keeps turning with no mercy. Nothing stops, and especially not Sergio.

* * *

The 2009 season kicks off with Florentino back at the helm of the mighty Real Madrid, along with the new Galacticos playing next to the dregs of the old ones. A shiny new forward line starring Cristiano Ronaldo, the gorgeous Portuguese winger, and additions practically everywhere.

It’s always good to see Xabi; the team needs a bit of class, Sergio jokes when he sees him and they both laugh. Nobody swears or kicks off a fuss like Xabi Alonso can.

Sergio gets promoted to vice-captain, and he stares in wonder when he’s told. Because that’s a role for people like Iker and Guti, to deputy under Raúl. That’s just the way it is. And it’s not right, because he’s only 24 and so, so lost sometimes. He feels old and tired, and he doesn’t understand people like Cristiano, who’s more than a year older but shines so brightly and with such confidence…

It scares him even more when friendly chatting with the Portuguese man becomes flirting, and he doesn’t realise until Raúl pulls him aside with an angry glare.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sergio? Iker’s obsessed with you and you already wave Fernando underneath his nose. Don’t you _dare_ bring Ronaldo into this too. I won’t have you hurt my friend more than you already are.” He hisses and Sergio stares at him in confusion.

“I- I wasn’t- Oh god, this is such a mess…” He apologises to Raúl, gently rebuffs Cris until he gets the message and maybe he manages to apologise to Iker when they’re both too drunk and occupied with each other to remember afterwards. 

He tells himself that he’ll confess everything to Raúl, ask him for help once he’s finished kicking his arse for the way he’s treated Iker and Fer. Raúl is one of the only players who has been there longer than Sergio now, and he needs advice because this isn’t fair or okay, or anything really. It’s a dream which is fast becoming a nightmare, and has gone on for far too long. 

But then the end of the season comes, and they all go their separate ways, and Sergio finds out that Raúl won’t be coming back next season – or Guti either. Because this club that he idolises has decided that the highest scorer in their history is going to be kicked out the front door, and – he stops thinking about it. He loves this club. He doesn’t want to believe they could do something like this, to two people he loves like his own family; they are his family, and everything was meant to be more than this.

But all good things come to an end, and he keeps seeing Fernando where people can see but keeps him in the dark, and uses Iker in the dark while torturing him with Fer. Everything is wrong and fucked up, and nothing more than Sergio. 

He doesn’t stop. 

* * *

It’s the night before they fly out to South Africa, and it’s just Sergio and Iker in the latter’s house in Madrid.

Iker has drifted off to sleep and Sergio lies on his side next to him in the double bed, taking in the lines of his face and thinking. He’s done a lot of thinking recently. 

In the moonlight from the open window, Iker’s hair is the colour of mud; the mud which clumps under his boots on the pitch of the Bernabeú and stains his pure white kit. Iker _is_ Real Madrid to him, he realises with a start and then wonders why it's such a shock. Iker is victory and bravery, power and a slight touch of arrogance, laughing with friends and the swish of the ball in the back of the opposition’s net. Iker is _home_. Iker is beautiful and kind, and deserves so much better than being hidden in the dark, his shameful secret.

And he hates that he’s still clinging on to Fernando, because Fernando is exhilarating. Fernando is the most gorgeous person he’s ever laid eyes on and he sets Sergio on fire in the most amazing way. They’re brilliant together, brighter than the Sun. But they haven’t been together for far too long for it to still work.

He’s fucking both of them up he realises; he’s lost count of the number of times he’s cheated on Fernando, and Iker’s still hanging on to something he's never truly had.

He figures that maybe it’s time to stop.

* * *

South Africa was… the best month of Sergio’s life. Or it should have been. He’s judged as the most effective player in the competition. He spends a month with all his friends, and Spain are the champions of the world. Iker is too good to be true; Sergio knows that Iker is the true hero, and he teases him constantly (“Am I worthy to be in the presence of his Saintliness?”). He almost envies that Xavi and Iniesta play for Barf-elona (still funny).

But. There’s always a but for Sergio. The days in Africa tick by like a time-bomb, and he remembers the promise he made himself.

So the day after the final (because he’s selfish and he wanted one more night of happiness before he blows everything apart), he pulls Fernando out to a café. They’re both quiet as they take their seats and Sergio realises that Fernando knows what’s coming. He’s been too distant over the last weeks for everything to be ok.

He gets up to get them both a drink, because he still knows what Fer likes after four years together but apart. (Skinny vanilla latte; it’s a contradiction, but it works.)

He sits – or rather falls – back down across from the person he thought was his soulmate. Maybe he is. But they can’t keep doing this.

“Fer, I have something I need to tell you.” And here it is. It’s like getting ready to cut off an infected limb, but finding that he hadn’t seen the limb as part of himself for a long time. Telling Fernando that he’s a crappy human being doesn’t hurt like he’d thought it would, and there’s none of the shouting he’d expected. Because this is _Fer_ , maybe one of the nicest people on the planet and even now, when he’s being told that his partner’s been cheating on him for what? Three years? He’s staring at Sergio like he wants to understand. Not like he’s angry or heartbroken, just deeply disappointed.

It’s so much worse than he thought it would be. Sergio has betrayed him, lied to him consistently and still led him on and used him, and he wants to be yelled at, hit, shown that he’s terrible and awful. He can’t demand anything else from Fer – or should it be Fernando now? He doesn’t deserve to call him Fer like he means anything to the man sitting across from him.

Fernando leaves after silence falls over the two of them, leaving the remains of his drink in his cup and leaning over the table to kiss Sergio one last time, and he tries to savour it, remember it as the last remnant of the most amazing thing he’d once experienced, but it tastes like ash on his tongue. The fire has long burnt out to embers, and all that’s left is the stinging burn wounds.

The world finally stops spinning around Sergio, and he feels so fucking tired. He’s almost ready to stop himself, but there’s one more thing to do. 

* * *

Of course Iker takes it differently. Iker has never been Fernando; that’s what Sergio loved about him. But this can’t carry on any longer either. 

His face is blank for a moment. Sergio would find it funny; he’s rendered the best goalkeeper in the world, the captain of the champions of not only Europe but the _world_ speechless. But of course it’s not funny, because this is _Iker_ and Sergio can almost hear the heartbreak behind the silence. 

“I don’t understand.” He finally manages. “You and Fernando are finished now. Why do we have to be too?”

Sergio marvels at his composure, the control in his voice. Nervously, he rubs at the Tolkien script on his arm (birthday present from Fernando, 2008 after the European Championships).

“Because, this isn’t right.” He finally looks up. “Because I used you, I led you on and let you down so many times. And then I rubbed Fer in your face to remind myself. Because this isn’t fair on you.”

“But,” Iker blinks three times in quick succession, “what if I don’t care that it’s not fair? What if I want you anyway?” And the control isn’t quite as tight this time, voice cracking on the last syllable, and Sergio’s resolve almost cracks as well.

“Iker, you deserve so much better. This,” he motions between the two of them, “isn’t working. Nothing decent will come out of this. And you’ll get hurt.” (Again, he thinks pitifully.)

“But I don’t want better, Sese, I want you.” His voice is just desperate now, and Sergio hates how his captain for club and country is having to blink back tears because of him. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he whispers before leaving the room that Iker shares with Xavi. 

He barely makes it back to his own room (alone, for now. Fernando moved in with Xabi for the last evening) before the tears come. And it’s four years’ worth of loneliness, of ignored messages and broken promises, of sad, longing glances and hurried whispers in dark rooms, of self-loathing and self-pity, of always picking the wrong path when there were so many right ones, four years’ worth of needing someone to talk to and finding that everyone had already left the party that comes pouring down his cheeks, and a choked gasp echoes in his ears.

He wants to scream and fight like he can on a pitch, but his throat isn’t cooperating and he’s pushed everyone away. So he takes his frustration out on the wall until his knuckles are sore and bloody and he’s sure he’s fractured at least one finger. Sergio drifts off to an uncomfortable rest, thinking how ironic it was that he was a world champion but had pushed himself away from everyone in the world he cared about. 

By the time Xabi comes to get him in the morning, he’s packed everything up (one-handed; his right hand is still throbbing but he can’t bring himself to care) and made a decision. 

No more fucking with people. Just focus on the football now. 

Xabi eyes him warily, and he smiles back wearily. He knows he looks like shit, and he deserves to. But this is the beginning of something new, of letting Iker and Fer move on without him. He still loves them both, but not in a way that either of them deserves, and so he has to let them go.

As the next season starts, he watches with a jealous smile as Cris gets closer to Iker and Iker lets him. In his mind, he thinks that he could do better, that he was always the first choice, that he knows Iker better than Cris ever could. And in his heart, he knows that it’s true and that he used that to hurt him. So he makes himself sit back, and when they announce that they’re dating to the rest of the team, he’s the first to congratulate and joke about them (The saint and the egotist. Opposites really do attract!) 

And when Iker corners him later and asks if he’s really ok, with a hopeful loss haunting his eyes, Sergio pulls him into a hug that says everything. That it’s not really ok, but he needs Iker to be happy without him for them to both move on. That Cris is wonderful, even if he’s not Sergio, and that it’s ok for Iker to be happy without him. That he really is so sorry _for everything_ , and happy that Iker is trying to move on. That they can both be happy without the other, even if it hurts right now.

Iker pulls back and gives him a grateful, watery smile. Sergio returns it, noticing that the way Iker looks at him has changed. There’s nothing hopeful or longing in his eyes anymore and he hates himself for the way that he misses that.

When they win the Copa Del Rey season, the two of them leading their team of idiots to victory, Sergio hosts the party and marvels at the way things have changed. He’s still the first on the dance floor, but he buys the booze now instead of drinking it all. He still dances with Iker, but it’s distant now, and he dances with everyone else as well and there’s always an effort to dance to a different rhythm. He still catches Iker’s eye across the room, but neither of them makes a move now. He never lets himself get drunk enough to fall back into his arms, and Iker never gets drunk enough to open them.

He loves it and hates it alternately, because he can finally shine as himself but now he has no one to shine for. Because he’s finally had to grow up, and if this is growing up, maybe he should go back to being a child. Being a grown-up fucking _hurts_.

When he drops the beautiful trophy off the front of the bus, the only trophy Iker hadn’t won (and that’s still incredible to him, that Iker has won everything now), Iker glares but with good humour. Everybody who likes Madrid finds it hilarious (Who else but Sergio? Stupid, happy Sergio…), and Sergio thinks that maybe this is him now; maybe it’s who he’s always been. He’s the pantomime villain, the clown, there to make everyone laugh and smile.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

* * *

It’s the 5th of December, 2014, and Sergio feels a strange sense of completion. He’s disguised himself with an old pair of sunglasses, a beanie hat and a large coat, and now he’s not Sergio Ramos, the world-renowned defender, but just another face in the crowd. 

He’s staring at a stage, and there’s a very familiar face standing up there, not looking nervous but like he’s come home. Dyed hair shining like gold in the Sun, still with long legs and a beautiful face, holding a red and white striped jersey. Full circle. 

As he begins to speak, a familiar tingling spreads out from Sergio’s stomach to his toes and his fingers, all the way through his heart. A smile begins to spread across his face, and he removes the sunglasses so he can see properly in the winter sunlight.

On the stage, he sees Fernando look across the crowd and somehow their eyes meet in a crowd of 45,000. Sergio winks and Fer’s speech stutters as he can’t help but smile.

He continues with his thanks, still with a grin tugging at the corners of his perfect mouth and Sergio slips the sunglasses back on. 

Maybe, just this time, he could let himself get started again.

 _Welcome home, Fernando_ , he thinks to himself happily as he turns to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you liked, or if you hated, or anything really. I'm just proud of managing to write something after nearly a year.


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